


The Mark of the Devil

by Mirach



Series: My Good Omens stories [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Branding, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Creepy Satan, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Poetic descripions of pain and time, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), more poetic than graphic really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23609200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: The now refuses to transform into the past, trapped in infinity like a grain of sand lodged in the middle of an hourglass. He can feel the shape of the sigil that’s being branded into his skin… into his flesh… into his essence.Crowley was punished after saving Aziraphale from the Bastille. Or so he thinks. The demons have a different opinion about the brand he is wearing now. But Aziraphale is on his side and helps him to get rid of it, even if the process is not pleasant for either of them.Based on art by Whiteley Foster.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: My Good Omens stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1517162
Comments: 30
Kudos: 214
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes, My faves - Good Omens Whump





	The Mark of the Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> Written for WhiteleyFoster's [picture prompt](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-thee).
> 
> Thanks to [kaiannanthi](kaiannanthi.tumblr.com) and cozygothmode for the beta!

([original art by WhiteleyFoster: “If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes!”](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the))

1793

The metal is the same colour as sunset over Paris. It blazes almost white, the edges fading into primrose yellow and marigold orange. The warm hues of poppy red extend in a soft glow around the hot-bright center, then fade into the darkness. A rich bouquet of hues, fit to adorn a table during a lunch of crépes, flowing smoothly through wine and talk towards dinner. Where is that moment now?

Gone.

Left behind.

Metamorphosed from present into past.

Time is still flowing from the future towards the past through a narrow crossing called "now", like the point where the curves of a lemniscate cross each other.

It will be over soon, he tells himself. It will be over soon. It's still ahead, but there's just a bit of "now" to endure and then it will be over.

It is not sunset.

It is not a colourful bouquet of flowers on a dinner table, in the light of candles that mirror the sparkles of mischief in an angel's eyes.

It is burning incandescent metal that is advancing toward his naked shoulder, the heat already reaching for his skin like a lover's lips leaning in for a kiss.

Now.

Pain is a blinding explosion, the shockwave spreading from the centre of impact.

Now.

Pain is a liquid cursing through his veins and flooding his body.

Now.

Pain is a colour, painting the insides of his eyelids.

Now.

It is still now.

Someone is screaming.

The now refuses to transform into the past, trapped in infinity like a grain of sand lodged in the middle of an hourglass. He can feel the shape of the sigil that's being branded into his skin… into his flesh… into his essence.

A cross with two bars. A larger one, a smaller one. A connection of stronger and weaker, a balanced imbalance.

The shape of a reclining figure eight: a lemniscate. Past and present connected in infinity. A coiling snake devouring its own tail. No escape. No release.

Together, they form the mark of Satan.

It is still now and the pain is an explosion, and a liquid, and a colour, and from the middle of the pain a voice sounds.

"Hello, darling."

* * *

Thoughts return slowly, like tiny, frightened creatures peeking out from hiding after a predator has moved on. The blistering mark on his shoulder is still pulsating with pain. He is still shaking. The moment is in the past, but it also remains in the present. In the past, in the present and in the future. It stretches into infinity. He is marked by Satan and there is no way to escape from the looping symbol of the mark.

A shy memory reminds him of sunset. Crépes. Paris.

Then the memory becomes urgent, waving at him and pointing at something, but his mind is too slow to make sense of it. It feels sore, violated. It feels as though something used his thoughts like a doormat to wipe their feet.

Crépes. Paris. Angel.

He blinks and the room comes sluggishly into focus. He's sitting on a simple wooden chair and several demons are watching him from the shadows. Hastur. Ligur. Dagon. Beelzebub.

Crépes. Paris. Angel. Miracles.

Oh. Oh shit. He used a miracle to rescue Aziraphale. Did they notice? Is this his punishment?

He tries to control his breathing, to calm the tremors still running through his body.

A terrible realization overshadows the lingering pain.

If they know… what will they do to the angel? Or rather — what will they want _him_ to do to the angel, so trusting that he allows Crowley this close, lowers his guard for him?

Do they know?

He needs to focus, he needs to find out. He pushes the pain aside like a too heavy blanket. There is another layer of pain beneath it. He struggles with it, gets tangled in its folds. When he can't free himself he pushes through, tearing through the stifling threads.

"W-Wha…"

His voice sounds foreign in his ears. It's too weak, too high, too hoarse. He closes his mouth, gulps and tries again.

"What wassss that for?" he hisses, and it sounds marginally better. Not as cooly indignant and menacing as he would wish, but getting there.

The demons around him snicker.

"What do _you_ think?" Ligur asks and the bloody bastard manages to sound so much more menacing than Crowley that it's unfair.

Crowley licks his lips and aims for nonchalance while his mind feels like it's filled with cotton. Dirty cotton. _Burning_ dirty cotton.

"Nothing comes to mind, and I usually know when I mess up. I've just been fomenting evil, spreading chaos, tempting to sin... The usual. I would like to know what I am being punished for. If I don't know what good I did, I can't avoid it in the future."

The demons laugh.

Ligur's laugh sounds like grinding bones in an open fracture.

Dagon's laugh is a cold, writhing thing.

Hastur laughs like a schoolgirl who just discovered the delight of stabbing a classmate with a pencil.

Only Beelzebub is not laughing aloud. They just smirk. "You think this isz a punishment?"

Crowley looks around, judges the reactions. "Uhm… isn't it?"

Ligur looms over him. "If it were a punishment, you would be still screaming," he whispers longingly, as if he wouldn't wish anything more.

"No, this isz not a punishment," Beelzebub says, watching Crowley intently. "This isz a reward."

* * *

1862

The ducks are a constant. They swim on the pond and occasionally duck ('cause they're ducks, naturally) below the surface, tails sticking out, just as they have done for thousands of years, generation after generation. They flock to any source of easy food and expect more as if it was their sacred right, just like they did a hundred years ago.

Crowley throws them a handful of breadcrumbs and absently rubs his shoulder. He's aware of what's there under the layers of dark cloth. He's aware of it all the time when he's awake. Maybe that's why he has been sleeping for most of the last century.

A reward, Beelzebub said. For the French Revolution and all of his other previous merits, half of which he didn't even remember claiming. A few actually belonged to Aziraphale.

A great honour for a demon. A brand that allows Satan to enter his mind directly, to give him knowledge or instructions if needed, to use him as a tool.

Fucking great honour. Just what he always wanted. A way for the creepiest being in existence to have a shortcut into his mind while he's having an Arrangement with an angel.

If Satan finds out about it, all will be lost. They will surely come for him, and then for Aziraphale.

He needs insurance.

He will ask the angel for holy water. Surely Aziraphale will understand.

* * *

After the Armageddon't

"I understand now," Aziraphale says, his fingers ghosting the protruding scar, pale and glossy against Crowley's skin. They trace the two connected loops of the lemniscate and the three lines of the double cross, hovering just above them, never touching.

Crowley's naked torso looks like pale gold in the warm light of the lamp. He shivers, but doesn't withdraw.

"Did He… use it often?" Aziraphale asks quietly, and something in his voice is telling Crowley that even if he said "just once", Aziraphale would find it too much.

"A few times," he says evasively, not wanting to lie to the angel. The decision to be honest was made when he removed his shirt to let Aziraphale see. "Last time was giving me the instructions for delivering the Antichrist."

"And at the airbase?"

"That was just His physical proximity. The brand has that effect. But He didn't reach out to me with His mind. His attention was on Adam."

"I didn't know how He was hurting you. I couldn't help. I could only prepare to fight…"

"I know, angel."

"But now I understand. Perhaps I could help now."

"You can't. The brand goes all the way into my essence. If there was a way to remove it without destroying myself, I would have done it already. I didn't show it to you so you could help me… or feel bad about not being able to."

"Why did you show me?"

"Because I want you to understand. I can't keep it secret from you anymore. You should know that we can be free from Heaven and Hell… but I will never be free of Him."

* * *

Three months later

"I did some research," Aziraphale says.

"Yeah?" Crowley asks without looking up from his phone. He's sitting on a sofa in the bookshop, enjoying a quiet evening inside. He's sipping wine and annoying some people over the internet while waiting for Aziraphale to join him with a book.

But Aziraphale isn't holding a book. "Yes," he says, and his tone makes Crowley finally look up from his touchscreen. "I think I know a way to get rid of the mark."

Crowley almost drops the phone. "You… what? Are you sure?"

"Please don't get your hopes up just yet. It's a horrible way. It's painful and dangerous. I will do more research, find a better way. I just wanted you to know that it's possible. That you can be free."

"Aziraphale. Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Do it now."

"N-No! Crowley, I didn't even tell you how it would work! Give me some time, I will find a better option."

"How would it work?"

Aziraphale bites his lip and tells him.

Crowley is quiet for a while, watching the angel. He sets the wine glass and phone aside. He removes his sunglasses.

"I want you to do it, angel. I trust you."

"Give me more time, Crowley. I will find another way."

"Take as much time as you need. But even if you don't find it, I am ready."

"But I'm not."

* * *

Three weeks later

"Are you sure, angel?"

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and pulls the sword from its sheath. His fingers close around the handle like the weapon was a natural extension of his hand. Almost immediately, the blade bursts into holy flame.

"I don't know, Crowley. Perhaps I could find another way, if I research it for a hundred years more. But I would hate to make you wait that long," Aziraphale says, his soft words a contrast with the sharpness of the blade.

"I thought you gave it away."

Aziraphale lowers the blade and returns it into the sheath. He looks a little embarrassed as he fumbles with it, not knowing where to put it. "Yes, well. I signed the form for it, right? I… might have — purely coincidentally — used my true name for it. A lucky coincidence indeed, since I can track my true name anywhere."

"Right, a coincidence," Crowley smirks. But then he looks at Aziraphale and he is as serious as he was when talking to Adam in the stopped time. "Are you really ready, angel?"

"Why are you asking _me_ if I'm ready? You're the one whose essence is going to be carved with a celestial blade!"

"And you're the one who needs to do the carving. You're the one who needs to hurt someone you care about to help the impatient, selfish prick."

Aziraphale scoffs. "An impatient and selfish prick indeed. But I would very much like him to be free from any creepy mind-intruding former employers. So yes, I am as ready as I'll ever be. Which is not that much, to tell the truth. But I'll do it."

Crowley nods slowly. "I don't think I could. Find the courage to do it to you, I mean. Thank you, angel."

Aziraphale still looks uncertain.

Crowley reaches for him, presses his hand reassuringly. "Even if something goes wrong, it was my decision, okay?"

"It won't go wrong."

* * *

Three hours later

The flames look like an opening maw of hell, like clawed fingers reaching for the soul of a sinner. They are getting closer, reaching for him, seeking flesh to tear and essence to devour…

"Crowley. Don't look at it. Look at me. Focus on my voice."

Aziraphale.

It's not a hellish flame. It's celestial. Not much of a difference, really. But Aziraphale is wielding this one. That's what makes all the difference.

He's in a summoning circle. It glows with faint white light and saps his demonic strength. It makes him dizzy.

Aziraphale drew the circle. Aziraphale summoned him into it — not to keep him inside, but to keep everything else outside. It's drawn with the symbols facing outward instead of inward, and Aziraphale is inside it too. The circle should prevent Satan from being forewarned that the connection to Him is being severed… if it works.

There is a pot of holy water just a step away from him.

Aziraphale blessed it and put it there. Not to harm Crowley, but to dissolve the part that will be cut off — the part bound to Satan forever. Also as insurance if the circle doesn't work.

He's tied to a sturdy chair.

The chair is cushioned, and the bonds are pink fluffy handcuffs that he had no idea the angel even knew existed, let alone knew where to buy. He will have to question him about this topic later.

He has been given painkillers and an injection of local anesthetic that Aziraphale administered with the practiced moves of a WW1 field medic.

He has also been given a leather belt to bite into, because they both know you can numb the corporation, but not the essence.

"Good, good. Keep your focus on me," Aziraphale says. His voice is calm, confident. There's no trace of the fretting that was there just minutes ago, when checking and double-checking everything and making sure Crowley didn't change his mind. Now he is a soldier, his movements precise, his hands steady. It's easy to focus on him...

...until the holy flames lick Crowley's skin and the sharp point of the blade pierces it, cutting straight into his essence.

Pain spreads from that point like a long delayed eruption of a volcano, the ground-shaking, rock-shattering explosion, the deadly fumes of the pyroclastic cloud, the inescapable flow of scorching lava, all centred around the hated brand.

There's a muffled scream.

Time stretches into an infinite now.

He's back in Hell, and the metal has the same color as sunset over Paris.

"Crowley. Stay with me."

It is still now.

It is still now, but he's not in Hell. He's with Aziraphale. He can feel the surgically precise moves of the blade under his skin, as fast as possible without sacrificing the precision. A sword is not as accurate a tool as a scalpel. In Aziraphale's hands, it is more accurate. But it hurts like hell. Of course it does, when his essence is being cut and cauterized with holy flame.

He looks at the angel and he sees bright light that doesn't strain his eyes but soothes. He feels a great power that doesn't hurt him, but instead covers him with love and protection. And he feels another power, dark and terrible, reaching for him and trying to get into his mind, a deepwater horror probing tentacles into a walled and well defended castle. And he's not the one defending it. He finds it hard to even focus on the present.

Now.

It is still now.

Time is stuck in the intersection between the loops of a lemniscate.

There's something trying to get into the summoning circle. There's snarling and howling. There's the smell of sulphur and burnt flesh.

There's a metal brand searing his shoulder and waves of anguish are crashing into his essence like flood waters in Mesopotamia.

All thoughts are drowning in it.

He's in Hell.

Demons are laughing.

A lemniscate and a double cross of pain.

Something dark is radiating from it, rooting itself in his essence.

Hello, darling.

The intrusion. The violation. The…

"Crowley, dear! Please, stay with me. It will be over soon, I promise. Look at me, my dear... Yes, that's right, I'm here. Look at me…"

He looks.

White wings are enveloping him. The angel is pure light and power. Protective, guiding, soothing. Nothing bad can happen under his guard.

The same angel is holding a flaming sword, cutting into Crowley's flesh. And then he makes a final move.

A moment of pure, blinding agony. Threads of foreign Presence being uprooted like the pulling of nerves. Something tearing loose. Something breaking.

His body sagging in exhaustion, clenched muscles slowly relaxing.

A gaping hole in his shoulder and sizzling of severed flesh and demonic essence in holy water.

Time is moving again, present becoming past. The terrible now is over, exchanged with another now.

A Now of freedom.

Then everything is dark.

* * *

Three days later

He squints open his eyes and blinks against the dizziness.

His shoulder hurts like hell.

He feels awful.

He feels free.

He's lying in a bed. It's soft and clean and it's in the place where Aziraphale used to have his unused pro forma bed. It is not this one, though. This one is a double and someone is lying next to him. It's the only person he would ever allow this close. Closer even, if the person would be willing. He can now.

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale leans over him. He looks like Crowley feels. Awful, that is. Maybe also free, because he's not wearing his ubiquitous bowtie and the first button of his shirt is undone. Scandalous.

"A-Az…"

Crowley's voice sounds foreign in his own ears. It's too weak, too high, too hoarse.

"Yes, Crowley. I'm here. It's all right. You're going to be all right."

It sounds relieved and Crowley can see the lines of weariness in Aziraphale's face smoothing with those words. That tells him it wasn't that all right for all the time.

"Here," Aziraphale says and lowers a cup to Crowley's lips. The liquid in it defies gravity and doesn't spill, allowing him to drink without having to move. Moving hurts, so that's nice. The tea is also nice. It's sweet and not too warm, soothing his dry throat. He would prefer something with a lot more alcohol in it, but that would probably be a bad idea. He doesn't want to worry Aziraphale. It seems the angel had a hard few… hours? days?

"How long have I been out?" he asks when the cup is empty. It feels better now, although his voice is still weak and rather pathetic. With Aziraphale, it doesn't bother him.

"Three days."

"Oh. You must have been worried."

It looks for a moment as though Aziraphale is going to deny it. But then his façade crumbles.

"Oh Crowley, I'm so sorry! It was torture! It was an awful torture and I did it to you, and you almost bled out! Not the corporation, but your essence! You weren't breathing for a whole day! I thought you would never wake!"

Crowley is taken aback by the anguish in Aziraphale's eyes. He feels rather under the weather at the moment, but that's just a physical weakness. (Or rather essential? It's his essence that hurts but it's an alternative of physical weakness in a human, unlike a hurt corporation which would be more like torn clothes.) Aziraphale's pain is much deeper.

"It was… uh... consensual torture," he smirks, trying to ease the mood.

Aziraphale is trembling.

"Oh angel. I asked you for it. I insisted, remember? It's me who should be sorry for dragging you through this. But that's about the only thing I regret about it." Weakly, he reaches for Aziraphale's face, touches his cheek. "It's alright. I'm sorry for scaring you. It's alright now. Come here, please…"

And Aziraphale comes, like a convict seeking shelter from prosecution in the sanctuary of a church. He aligns his body with Crowley's and rests his head in the welcoming nook between Crowley's neck and shoulder — the unhurt one. There is a balance between being careful with the hurt demon and the need to be close to him, to reassure himself that he is alive, he is free, and he is going to be well.

Crowley can feel it in the warm touch, in the ceasing shivers running through Aziraphale's body. He feels the pain-induced tension in his own muscles abating and he is relaxing against a soft form next to him like pliant clay into a mould.

"Thank you, Aziraphale," he whispers. "Now we can be truly free…"

Aziraphale sighs and his breath is warm against Crowley's neck.

* * *

Three minutes later

An angel and a demon are lying together on a bed, fast asleep. There are echoes of pain in their faces, but a faint smile on their lips.

They are free and they are together. And if there is a scar left on Crowley's shoulder, he'll wear it proudly, because it is a mark of trust and his angel's courage.


End file.
